Like an Enormous Clock
by Mitchekie
Summary: Mr. Gilbert Huph is the boss everyone loves to hate, but what if he wasn't always such a tyrant? Based on a really weird dream I had. One-shot.


**Based on a really weird dream I had...**

* * *

 _Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap..._

The seconds danced their monotonous steps across the grandfather's face - tick... tock... tick... tock... Each beat of each tick... and every tick of each tock... was like the sharp snap of a finger, a snap that clicked every step perfectly into place. But as incessantly as that grandfather clock ticked, it was want to match the tock of another resident in the room, for no matter how fast the seconds rolled by... they did not tap as fast as the foot of Mr. Huph...

Thirty-three year old Mr. Huph sat, pallid and square, in the center of the office, held quite firmly in place by a rickety wooden chair that kept his frame perfectly stiff and his bottom uncomfortably numb. His hands rested softly in his lap, but they itched to cling to the sides of the chair for support. His foot tapped frantically upon the hard wooden floor... and his eyes consistently darted back and forth from the grandfather clock to the desk. Both seemed to be watching him. The clock, in particular, had a cold, calculating gaze, its second hand unapologetically ticking away whatever time he had left before his sentence was to be carried out.

 _Tick tick tick tick..._

He hated that sound. It was so inconsiderate, taking into account his current situation. In an attempt to drown out the ticking, his gaze felt its way around the room. This was not the first time he had been in this office. It was an elegant set-piece - fit for a mansion, perhaps, but particularly out of place in a drab and monotonous downtown complex. The entire room was covered from head to foot in wood-paneling; lush, red, dust-ridden wood-paneling. It was decorated with a number of tables set with small, but elegant, lamps, most of which were turned off save for two, one on each side of the room. The freshly-vacuumed floor was carpeted, books lined the shelves against the wall, and behind the desk that sat in front of Gilbert was an intimidating fake stone fireplace of decent size. And, of course, there was the chair. A small, rickety, spindle-legged thing that looked incredibly out of place amidst the lavish furniture, and which Mr. Huph was currently sitting in.  
Too many incidents had brought him to this chair. There was the time he had come in an hour late for work because of an incident involving a young girl and a kitten stuck in a ditch. That had earned him a costly mark. And then there was that horrible mistake he'd made on the twenty-second of June of last year (he remembered it being the twenty-second of June because his boss wouldn't let him forget it...), when he had granted an Accidental Death Benefit and coverage equaling the full cash value for a number of items to the same family in one day... He could still feel the burns from that one. But, despite it all, amidst the crushing, humiliating remarks from his boss, along with the pleading whispers from his coworkers to keep his nose out of places he shouldn't stick it, Gilbert could only admit that he couldn't constrain himself. He just loved helping people too much. But this time? His latest slip-up would earn him the guillotine for sure. The very furniture in the room seemed to know it. The leather chair opposite behind the desk glared at him, a frown creased into every fold; the pens militarily lined up on the table all pointed in his direction - four jurors directed at the accused; and even the flooring, made up of beautiful ornate carpeting, had imprinted upon it rows and rows of perfectly straight diagonal lines that all joined at the tip that met right underneath his chair as though marking a bulls-eye. It was positively terrifying.

A sharp creak behind him made Gilbert jump in his seat, and a swift turn of the head revealed the very last person he wanted to be face-to-face with right now: Francis Pennysaver, his boss. Gilbert swallowed, a difficult feat owing to the fact that there was a rather large lump in his throat at the moment.

Mr. Pennysaver and Mr. Huph could not be more different in physical appearance nor personality. Mr. Pennysaver was tall, portly, and carried about him an air that demanded excellence and perfection from all whom he came in contact with. A tight-fitting, Army green suit and dark gray pants adorned his stately posture, both freshly-ironed and looking, as always, like they had just been bought yesterday. His head sported a particularly thin trim, with a cut so sharp it was almost threatening... as if any who dared defy him would suffer a similar cut, albeit a little below the chin. But though sharp was the cut, it was nothing compared to his tongue. It sliced with the vigorous energy and fervor of a drill instructor, a veteran at the mast, swift to downplay opposition and eager to humiliate for the sake of personal elevation. Many debated for years about whether or not he truly had been a senior drill instructor in the past. Ginny Curry had even been bold enough to search his drawers one day for physical proof - a loose badge or military papers - but to no avail. (She had been caught and fired, of course.) It was later discovered by a senior former coworker that his impressive facade was just that: a facade. Not a day had he spent in the barracks, although he wished he had, and perpetually dressed as if his bad leg had not served as a barrier to admittance at the front lines.  
Mr. Huph, on the other hand, was short, clumsy, riddled with anxiety, and carried about him a heavy lack of self-worth. He was altogether responsible and irresponsible; intelligent yet uncertain; ambitious but afraid. His greatest weakness was also his greatest strength: compassion. It earned him friends and brought him enemies. It tested his resilience to the naysayers, and his desire to please would ultimately be his downfall... but he didn't know that yet...

Francis Pennysaver shut the door of the office behind him and walked, stiffly and resolutely, to the chair behind the desk resting in front of Gilbert, taking his sweet time about it and exhaling audibly through his nose as he sat, as if such a simple act caused him a great discomfort. He didn't look at Gilbert, but picked up some stray papers laying on the desk, shuffled through them, and quietly straightened them out. Gilbert gulped. He wasn't fooled by this seemingly passive composure. He knew what was coming.

After shuffling and straightening the papers to his satisfaction, Mr. Pennysaver set all but one aside, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on the table, hands curled inward and pressed to his lips in contemplation. He stared at Mr. Huph. Mr. Huph nervously stared back, all too aware of that familiar trembling feeling creeping up his toes and infecting the whole of his frame. _Come on. Just say something and get it over with..._ , thought Gilbert to himself. The lone paper set apart from its brethren lay in front of Mr. Pennysaver, and his eyes flickered back and forth, from Gilbert... to the paper... and back again.

Finally, he spoke.

"Do you know what this is, Gilbert?" asked Mr. Pennysaver, almost covertly, refusing to address him like a gentleman and instead using his first name.

Gilbert, trembling, gulped again... and shook his head. He didn't dare open his mouth for fear of nothing coming out but a squeak and a crackle.

"Gilbert. I asked you a question," pressed Mr. Pennysaver, more firmly this time. "What is this?"

"I... I...," stuttered Gilbert, his mumble fluttering down to the floor as he directed his gaze to his well-worn shoes. He began fumbling his hands together in a feeble attempt of distraction.

"What was that?" pulled Mr. Pennysaver.

"M... my..."

"Speak up."

"Mm.. my... I-It's my..."

"SPEAK UP, MAN," he shouted, staring daggers at him.

"Itsmyreport,Sir!" Gilbert spoke in a rush, it all coming out at once.

"Ohhhhh. It's your report. I see. Well, since we are both gentlemen not to be overtaken by time, let's take a look at it, shall we?" And he picked up the paper, gave it a sharp shake to straighten it out, and began to read:

'August 2nd, 1994.

Dear Mrs. Tremble,

I, Mr. Gilbert M. Huph, hereby grant full coverage to Mrs. Hillary Tremble for all lost and/or destroyed items, property, and possessions hitherto belonging to said client in pursuance of Insuricare coverage laws stated in Section C, Line 182, to be effective immediately on this date, August 2nd, 1994.

Mr. Gilbert M. Huph  
Insuricare Agent.'"

Mr. Pennysaver whipped the paper into a perfectly straight slip once more and slapped it back onto the table without hesitancy. His mouth was nothing but a thin line, and his stare, albeit its quiet and lethargic state, was biting. Mr. Huph wouldn't have been surprised if steam suddenly started issuing out of his ears. But all Mr. Pennysaver did next was to lean forward in his chair again, and when he spoke... it was with a subtlety that screamed for compliance.

"Do you take me a fool, Gilbert?" spoke the boss, almost in a whisper.

"No...," replied Gilbert in a barely audible mumble.

"Specifics, Gilbert. 'No'... _what_?"

Gilbert swallowed.

"No, Sir, I-I don't think you're a f-fool."

"You don't think me a fool. Yet your report _clearly_ says otherwise," Mr. Pennysaver replied, eyes widening in mock surprise as one hand gestured towards the paper lying in front of him. "Did you not think something like this wouldn't slip by me? Or did you just want to test the waters?"

Gilbert said nothing. His gaze was firmly stuck to the floor, eyes shifting back and forth in nervous trepidation.

"You know something, Gilbert? I think you _do_ take me for a fool. And you know what? You're right. I am a fool," Mr. Pennyworth said, standing up suddenly and pacing around the room. "I'm a fool for ever letting you into this office; for... for letting you step into this building. For hiring you in the first place. And if I was to be practical, Gilbert," he stated, standing right in front of Gilbert - the hungry bear intimidating his prey, "I would fire you on the spot right now... But I'm not going to. Do you know why, Gilbert?"

"Why...?"

"What was that?" Mr. Pennyworth asked, placing a hand to his ear and leaning downward an inch.

"Wh-why are you not going to... t-to f-fire me, Sir?" Gilbert stuttered, still not looking up. He was hating every bit of this conversation. He hated his boss. He hated this chair. He hated his life. And yet... his curiosity peeked. Not fired...? Surely, he must have misheard...

"I'm not going to fire you, Gilbert, because you're smart. Yes, Gilbert, you heard me correctly," he reinforced, for Gilbert had finally lifted his head up... and he was looking incredulous, the dumb-founded stare plastered on his face making him appear quite the opposite of intelligent. "Despite your idiotic decisions when you succumb to being overly compassionate," Mr. Pennyworth continued on, walking back around behind his desk now, "and your simple and weak personality, you are no fool when it comes to the books. You can balance a checkbook and a plethora of numbers better than anyone in my office. Stock value went up just three months after you were hired and I've been able to cut costs on staff because, well...," he paused to give a little chuckle, "... we simply don't need as many brains behind the desks because you compensate for all of them."

He gave Gilbert a small, encouraging, but somewhat devious, smile. Gilbert, suddenly aware that he was gawking, shut his mouth immediately.

"You can thank your lucky genes for your knack of dealing with financial matters, Mr. Huph, because it's the only thing saving you right now."

It was the first time ever that he had addressed Gilbert by his last name, like a gentleman...

"So...," Mr. Pennysaver reached in one of his desk drawers and pulled out a small, brown, drawstring satchel and tossed it swiftly and suddenly to Gilbert, who, thankfully, caught it. He didn't stare at the thing, but rather held it tightly in his trembling hands, gaze now fixed on the boss. "Open it," Mr. Pennysaver demanded. Gilbert obeyed. He carefully drew apart the drawstring on the little satchel... and peered inside. There lay a hefty number of gold coins, enough to buy himself a briefcase and a new pair of shoes, maybe two. "I want you to go out and buy yourself a new suit and a decent pair of shoes. Mr. Huph, I am promoting you to Chief Operating Officer. You will no longer need those old clothes, and you will no longer be driving that old Justy, as long as you do what is in our best interests. This is a company, Gilbert, not a charity. Do you understand?"

Gilbert gulped, and nodded.

"Good. You are dismissed, Mr. Huph."

Gilbert slid out of that chair as fast as he dared and was at the door within seconds. He could barely believe what had just happened. He was just stretching for the handle, which was almost too high for him to reach, when his boss addressed him one last time...

"Oh, and Gilbert? Cut the nerves."

Gilbert swallowed hard, nodded, and eagerly exited the room.

/

The next day found Gilbert in rapt attention at his bathroom mirror. He fiddled with the tie choking his neck. Its creamy white and midnight black stripes married perfectly with the pristine dark suit and pants adorning his diminutive figure. Breaking it in would be a bit of a trick, but he wore it well. The intimidating look was not one he was used to, but there was something in its air that he liked. It made him feel well-polished; important; confident.

He slipped on his shiny new black shoes, picked up his briefcase, and stepped out the door. Locking it, he looked out onto the street that paralleled the skinny sidewalk adjacent to the apartment complex he lived in. The sky was promising - only the occasional puffy cumulus and a bright and welcoming sun to complement it. He sighed, resolute, and headed for his car parked along the street.

As he opened the trunk to load in his briefcase, he felt something tug at his new shirtsleeve. He looked down. There stood a girl, no more than eight; the same girl of whose rescue he had come to just several weeks previously when he had pulled her kitten out of a ditch. She obviously recognized him, perhaps had even sought him out, for she was looking at him with hope brimming in her tear-filled eyes.

"Excuse me, Mr... Would you please help my cat? He got stuck again..."

And she pointed upwards to a tree along the curb a few paces down. Mr. Huph directed his gaze to where her finger led: right up to the second-nearest branch. There clung the kitten, once again a victim of its own curiosity.

"He can't get down," the little girl whimpered. "I've been trying to get him down, but he won't come down! Could you please get him?"

Mr. Huph frowned sadly and stared at the little girl, then up to the cat, then back again at the girl. A reel was churning in his head. It played, at a rapid pace, a brief, but picturesque, story of his life: he was a child, helping his mother with the dishes; it was a school day and he was sprinting up the steps to assist a classmate who had dropped his books; the fall leaves had piled up and old Mrs. McNally was smiling at how good a job Gilbert did at keeping her drive-way clear; he was two years into his job and recommended a fellow coworker get the promotion instead of him. It was a pleasant film, and his past smiled back at him. But there was a menacing grin, too. In the back of his mind, he remembered the less kindly memories that continued to churn his stomach to this day. Like that time his father called him a good-for-nothing sap; one who was too sensitive and very unlike the go-getter that he was expected to be. Or those days he was bullied horribly in school for standing up for the defenseless. Or not getting that promotion he really did want, even though he was too considerate to say anything...

He continued to stare at the girl for several more seconds. Normally, he would have stepped forward, hand outstretched, without hesitation. Had he his way, he would have been running back to the apartment to grab the ladder by now. But something else clicked; something egoistic - it was a wanting, a long-harbored and overwhelming desire, that snuffed out that warm little light that had burned for so long. In an instant, a lock had clicked, forever shutting a door that had never yet been closed, and the Mr. Huph of yesterday... was not the Mr. Huph of today. He frowned, lowered his head, and finished loading his briefcase into the trunk, shutting it closed with a snap.

"Sorry, kid. I have work to do."

And without so much as glancing at her a second longer, he hopped in his car, revved up the engine, and drove off. And although there had been many a time where he had been sincerely apologetic when he simply couldn't help a needy soul, it was the first time in his life that he did not look back.

* * *

 **Yeah, so, I had this really strange dream one night where I was in the world of _The Incredibles_ , and it was at that part in the movie where Bob Parr was being harshly reprimanded by his boss, Mr. Huph. I was seeing the scene either from Mr. Incredible's point of view or my own; I can't remember which (I think it jumped back and forth). But as Mr. Huph was talking, he was transfiguring, aging from a nervous, anxiety-riddled, yet kindly, younger man into the demanding boss we know him as in the movie. It was almost like a story, showing, in looks only, what horrible arc he had traveled over. And in the dream it was so... sentimental. I was like, "That's not fair... How did this really sweet guy become such a tyrant?" So I gave a shot at filling in the blanks - my own interpretation of what might have happened to make him snap.**

 **And that's the story of how I went from greatly disliking that boss dude in _The Incredibles_ to legitimately feeling sorry for the guy via an explanation that isn't even canon. Go figure.**

 **Update : Added a colorful description of the office and gave more backstory to Gilbert's life.  
**


End file.
